


Thou Born to Match the Gale, (Thou Art All Wings,)

by tabaqui



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set sometime in season two - a routine hunt becomes something much more.  Originally posted in October of 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thou Born to Match the Gale, (Thou Art All Wings,)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from [To the Man-of-War-Bird](http://www.bartleby.com/142/267.html), by Walt Whitman. Beta'd by Darkhavens, with help from Reremouse. Originally posted as eight chapters. 
> 
> The Latin is from this exorcism ritual: ['Exorcismale'](http://laudatedominum.net/files/exorcismale.pdf), and the second bit translates as: _'I command thee, unclean spirit, whoever thou art along with all thine associates who have taken possession of this servant of God...'_.
> 
> The 'prayer for a happy death' is [here](http://www.preces-latinae.org/thesaurus/Varia/OMariaSineLab.html), 'O Mary, Conceived Without Sin'.
> 
>  _'Lech le'shalom'_ is Hebrew for 'Go in peace'.

"So, what's this thing again?" Dean asks, and Sam makes this sort of huffing noise, like he can't believe Dean's asking _again_. Not Dean's fault that the name's not as important as how to kill its evil ass. The car's only been off for five minutes and the cold January air is already slipping in, making Dean hunch his shoulders a little in his jacket.

" _Bicho Papão_. It's a Portuguese boogeyman. He's supposed to come with sacks and take bad kids away and sell them."

"Sell them. To _who_?" Dean wonders and Sam kind of shrugs.

"I dunno. The Spanish? Anyway – there's a lot of Portuguese immigrants around here so –"

"So the Sack Man kinda came along for the ride."

"Yeah." Sam checks his pockets for extra shells one last time and they slide out of the car. The footing is a little slick, the temperature hovering just above freezing. The sharp, metallic scent of snow is in the air and Dean hopes it will hold off until they're done here. He hates driving in snow, mostly because the other drivers are idiots. And he hates getting all that salt and mess on his baby.

Dean has his Glock tucked against the small of his back and his own shotgun, loaded with wrought iron rounds. Sack Man – boogeyman – they're all connected back to boggarts somehow, who're connected back to fairy, and the one true weapon against fairy is cold iron. So – shoot the bad guy, save the kids. Four, at last count. The latest one's been missing close to fifty hours – the first one already gone a week. Dean hates to see the wounded, wide-open faces of the grieving parents on the news. 

_*Kick some Portuguese…some Portu…huh.*_ "Hey, is there some kinda slang for people from Portugal?"

" _No_. There isn't." Sam frowns over at Dean and Dean rolls his eyes. Not like he's gonna start _using_ it or anything, he's just curious. Some of Dad's Marine buddies had had names for every race and religion under the sun, but he'd never heard them verbally slur the Portuguese. 

_*Guess Sam's right. Which he doesn't need to know. Smug bastard.*_ Dean pats his own pocket, feeling the weight of a handful of shells. He doesn't imagine they'll need more than one shot each but 'be prepared' is one of the Winchester family mottos. Well, one they can claim out loud, at least.

"Okay, so – anything?" Sam asks, and Dean belatedly snaps on the EMF meter, frowning as it almost instantly goes nuts, squealing and spitting static.

"Fuck, guess so." 

In front of them is an old warehouse, grimed bricks stained nearly black by the years. The two big, wooden doors are sagging and crooked – half off their hinges, the chain and padlock all that's keeping them together. Somewhere beyond the building are a dock and the sea and Dean can smell the thick scent of brine and rotting wood and fish in the cold, wet air. 

They ease up to the doors and Dean turns the meter off, shoving it away into a pocket. There's faint light coming through the cracks in the doors and they both stop for a moment and peer through, trying to see – anything. But it's just shadows and a dim, amber light – candles maybe, or a bulb about to go out. Nothing concrete, so Dean just pulls at the hinge side of one of the doors, pivoting it up with a low groan and a clink of the chain. Sam compresses himself down impossibly small and duck-walks under the door edge. A moment later Dean slips through behind him and eases the door back into place.

They're surrounded by heaps of broken pallets and what looks like some kind of conveyer belt, snaking over half the stained concrete floor. The smell of fish is even stronger in here, even though Dean's sure this place has been out of commission for twenty years or more. It's an old cannery and the ghosts of long-dried scales glimmer in the shadows. A rusting chain-fall chimes softly, touched by some vagrant breeze, and Dean nudges Sam and they creep forward, toward the light.

They haven't even gotten half way across the building when Dean realizes they're too late. The smell of blood and piss and rot are unmistakable – choking – and they stop bothering to be quiet or even careful and just run. 

All four kids are there – right there. Hung up in clotted chains, spread out and open like bruise-red stars and Dean feels his gorge rise, sick burn and too much spit in his mouth. Little blonde girl, little black-haired boy. A red-head and a brunette, none of them older than twelve. Dean just stands and stares, _*…their heads are hanging down, thank God, can't see their eyes, can't see their eyes…*_ Sam's shoulders are curved down, his chin tucked. Fists so tight on the gun Dean can see every tendon standing out in sharp relief. There are marks scrawled on the walls and floor in what might be paint and what is most certainly blood. Little piles of charred stuff, burnt-down candles and cracked, yellow bones. _Magic_ lingers in the air, tingling along Dean's skin.

The moth-dusted bulb hanging down on a frayed wire sways gently to and fro and for one heart-lurching, gut-twisting moment Dean thinks the kids move – thinks he sees them twist and flinch in silent agony. But no – nothing. The blood under their pitiful bodies is black and cracked and dry and whoever – whatever - did this is long gone.

"Dean –" Sam says, and he sounds like he did when he was eight and they found that little dead fawn along the side of the road. Soft, dappled flank and blood threading from its nose and Dean had just taken his hand and led him away.

"I know," Dean says, and swallows. The urge to vomit is being rapidly replaced by the urge to kill something – kill it _hard_. When there's the little click and scrape of something moving over in the shadows against the back wall, Dean feels his lips pulling back from his teeth in a silent, gleeful snarl.

He and Sam move like two halves of one whole, ducking and circling and inching past tangles of rusted steel, sharp edges just kissing calf or thigh or shoulder as they ghost past. The light is dim and smoky back here, but it's enough. It shows a serpentine of rusted chain, a pale, bare foot and tattered jeans and whatever is there isn't what they're looking for. Whatever is a _whoever_ – a filthy knot of denim and raveling sweater and lank, dark hair. Curled up tight, pressed into the wall like they're trying to go _through_ it. 

Male – female – impossible to tell and Sam goes down on one knee, reaching out to touch the hunched, shivering shoulder. "Hey – you're gonna be okay, we're here to help –" Sam says, and the person flinches violently away. Hard enough to crack their head on the bricks – hard enough to startle Sam, who jerks back. "Shhh, hey – c'mon, I won't hurt you."

"Just burn me alive, just k-kill me with your f-fucking – kindness," the other says, voice stuttering through some damage or some illness, rasping and wrong. There's another slither and clink of the chain and Dean realizes that the rusting length is twisted tight around thin wrists – stretched taut up to a bruised throat. Plum and green and blue-black stains under the heavy links.

 _*Not what we're looking for, Jesus Christ, what the hell -?*_ Dean crouches down next to Sam and the figure flinches again, glitter of dark eyes through tangled hair. "Is it still here? The thing that hurt those kids?" The shaggy head shakes, _no no no_ and Dean curses softly. 

"What set the EMF meter off, then?" Sam asks. He puts his shotgun down – nowhere near the person, because you just don't _do_ that. Dips his hand into his inner coat pocket, pulling out the little roll of lock picks he's had since he was thirteen. 

"I dunno. That –" Dean nods his head toward the kids and the blood, swallowing. "That looks kinda…ritual-y, don't you think? Maybe some kind of – leftover energy?"

"Maybe." Sam reaches for the chain and the lock that's dangling crookedly under the crusted edge of a sweater sleeve. The person shudders all over and then freezes, head turned away. Eyes shut, as far as Dean can tell. Like they're just waiting to be hurt.

"Maybe it's still in here," Dean mutters. He takes the meter out again and turns it on and it _screams_. And the person does, jerking away from Sam and scrabbling on knees and bound hands _away_. To the limit of the chain, along the wall. Pulling up short when the chain runs out, sprawling on the pocked concrete. Twisting, uselessly fighting the corroded iron, bare feet pushing. Scraping off skin. 

Dean clicks the meter off and the person shuts up, too, jaw snapping shut on that rasping wail. "Or maybe we're being fucking played," Dean growls.

Sam scoops up his shotgun, working the pump, and they advance on the person. It's just huddled there, curling up tight. Chest moving under the mud-colored yarn of the sweater in sharp gasps. Sam digs around in another pocket and pulls out his flask – unscrews the lid. Splashes holy water out in an arc, across fisted hands and the pale, bruised jaw just visible under the hair. Nothing. No smoke, no sizzle. The person – if it _is_ a person – sighs out a long, trembling breath.

" _Spiritus, in quo daemonia eiiciuntur…_ " the voice whispers, chin finally coming up – hair shifting back enough to show blood-shot eyes and more bruises. The Latin strangely accented, twisting the words. But Dean still recognizes them. ' _Spirit, by whom demons are expelled…_ '

" _Miserere nobis_." Sam and Dean's reply is automatic – reflex. ' _Have mercy on us._ ' But Dean's not feeling very merciful. He pushes his shotgun into Sam's hands and Sam nods once.

"I've got questions – you'd better have some fucking answers," Dean says. Bends down and grabs a handful of the noxious sweater and jerks the person to their feet. The face under the grime and the blood is neither male nor female. It's ageless and too pretty and that pushes Dean right over into the 'not human' side of thinking. So he doesn't feel too bad when he cocks his arm back and punches, hard as he can.

The thing goes out like a switched-off light and Dean lets the body slump back to the floor. "Go get the bolt-cutters, Sam," Dean says, taking back his shotgun – taking a step back from the prone figure on the floor. "We need enough chain to make sure whatever this is can't get away. Then we're gonna find a payphone and call the cops. Those kids…" Dean stops, sighing softly.

"They need to go home," Sam finishes. He rubs his fingers over his forehead, his head probably pounding. "Yeah, okay." He holds Dean's gaze with his own for a long moment and then he's gone and Dean crouches down just out of range, shotgun held easily across his knee. Thinking for a moment how much it's going to suck for these kids' families, getting a call past midnight. They'll know before anything's even been said – they'll know the minute their phones ring. 

_*Sorry. God, so fucking sorry…*_

 

Failure is like grave dust in Dean's mouth and he glares at the sprawled figure in the rear view mirror for a moment before getting out of the car. Sam hasn't said a word all the way back to the motel and Dean can't think of a single thing to say to make him talk. 

He hauls the body out roughly and carries it inside, old sweat and new and blood-smell in his nose. Other, filthier smells from the ruined clothes that speak of a long confinement, or at least a hard one. Sam opens the door to their room and then goes back to the car for a few things while Dean deposits the limp form into a chair. He sheds his jacket to the bed – lays the shotgun carefully ready.

The chain has cut into the flesh of the skinny wrists – cut and bruised and abraded, but Dean isn't interested in playing Florence Nightingale. He picks up the long, trailing end of iron links and contemplates the best way to use it to chain this fucker back up. Maybe anchor it around the frame of the bed? Sam slips inside, rope and the bolt cutters in his hands. 

"We should take the chain off, Dean."

"It might be the only thing keeping it from getting away," Dean answers, letting the slack slither out of his hands to the floor. 

Sam's eyebrows go up. "You don't think – he's human?"

"Really don't."

"But…the holy water –"

"Sam…" Dean sighs – crouches down and holds his hand out for the rope. Sam hands it over – watches Dean press a jean-clad calf to the chair leg and start winding rope around it. "We've seen holy water not work before. I just don't wanna take any chances."

"Then –" Sam crosses to the bed and picks up Dean's jacket and pulls the meter out of the pocket. "We should check again now that we're clear of the warehouse. Nothing here, right?"

"Yeah," Dean says, knotting the rope tight. He stands up and steps away and Sam turns the meter on. It hisses and squeals, the needle jittering over into the red and Sam shakes his head. 

"Guess you're right."

"Guess we better figure out what the fuck it is before we're sorry we dragged it back here. You gonna help me now?" Dean waves the rope-end in the air and Sam turns the meter off – tosses it down. 

"Yeah, okay. Dresser leg, maybe?"

"I was thinking bed frame but –"

"Have to step over the chain."

"Yeah. Okay, dresser leg. We could use those cuffs –"

"Yeah." Sam goes to root around in Dean's duffel and Dean goes back to tying the things legs to the chair legs. Then they wind more rope around its upper arms and chest and run the chain to the dresser leg, wrapping it around and around. There's a good ten feet of slack – more than enough. Sam clicks the handcuffs through the last couple links and then through some of the chain higher up and gives it a tug. The dresser rocks a little, but it's solid.

Dean pulls the Glock out of his waistband, turns to lay it on the table and stops. The thing's eyes are open, watching him. He grins. "Well, look who woke up. Ready to answer some questions?"

Sam grabs the box of salt out of the hold-all and sketches a circle all around the prisoner, who watches with unblinking eyes. Then he lays a fast line of salt in front of the motel door – across the windowsill, under the curtain edge. Dean just watches their prisoner, the Glock heavy and comfortable in his hand, chilled from being outside. 

"Ookay…" Sam says, putting the salt away and grabbing one of Bobby's books. "I've got this great exorcism –"

"Can't exorcise what isn't there, hunter," the thing says, and Dean leans against the dresser, laying the gun down and drawing his knife. Gunshots draw too much attention, anyway. 

"Well, we can give it the old college try. Or Sam can, at least." Flash of a grin at Sam and Sam just shakes his head – pages through the book. _*Fuck, what is it? Can't be another demon like… Can't be.*_ The thing just stares. Twists its hands a little, wincing. There's dried blood on the chains – blood soaked into the cuffs of the sweater. Moons of black under the ragged nails and more bruises. _*It's vulnerable, at least. Could just be the iron…*_

" _Praecipio tibi, quicumque es, spiritus immunde, et omnibus sociis tuis hunc Dei famulum obsidentibus…_ " Sam chants and Dean follows along in his head. The words are familiar – almost soothing. Sam's voice is even and calm – low, because there's no need to scream the words. Their power is in their age and in their shape – in what they define. The thing just sits. Closes its eyes and looks tired to death and Dean is _not_ feeling sorry for it. Sam reads on, glancing up, but after a few more minutes it's clear that nothing is happening. No begging – no screaming. No pain or blood or spitting of noxious substances and Sam's voice fades to silence.

And the…person, Dean supposes, opens dark-circled eyes and licks chapped, split lips. Speaks in that painful rasp, in that strange and wrong-sounding Latin. "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end."

" _Amen_ ," Sam whispers. He looks bewildered and unhappy and Dean grits his teeth. Crouches down in front of the person, his knife resting delicately on the length of chain that hangs down – puddles on the cheap carpet. 

"What's your name?" he asks.

Dark eyes flicker up to Sam – back to Dean. "Rafe."

"Why were you there? Why were you a prisoner?"

Rafe shakes his head. "I'm not…sure. It needed…it took something. From me. I don't…" He takes a shaky breath. "Those ch-children. It…they _screamed_ –" His rasping voice breaks and he turns his face away, chest hitching as he struggles for control. 

"Dean –" Sam says, soft, and Dean stands up and moves a few steps away, sliding his knife into its sheath. 

"He tripped the meter, Sam. He's not possessed or a demon but…there's something _off_ about him. He's not human. Or not _all_ human." Sam looks over at the hunched figure, biting absently at a hangnail and Dean bats Sam's hand away from his mouth. "Dude – your hands are filthy."

"Jesus, Dean…" Sam wipes his fingers on his jeans and hunches his shoulders a little. He hasn't taken his coat off and there's a smudge of something on one shoulder, dark and sticky-looking. "Okay, so, he's something but – he's _hurt_ , Dean. We can't just leave him like that."

"We can until we know for sure he's not gonna go postal on us. And this – Sack Man –"

"It didn't do this. They _don't_. They kidnap but they don't…kill. And they don't do magic. You saw that place, Dean. Something happened there – something big."

Dean pushes his hand back through his hair, frowning. "Yeah, I know. _Fuck_ …"

"Yeah. We need to look up those markings – figure out what it was doing. We need –"

A sudden thought comes to Dean and he turns back to the other, who looks as miserable as a wet cat. "Hey – how'd you know that Latin? Where did you learn that?"

Rafe jerks slightly, startled – blinks dazed eyes up at them. "It…it was just there. In my h-head. I don't –"

"Know, yeah. Okay."

"Please can I – can I have some w-water?" Rafe asks, and Sam's whole face flinches.

"Dean –"

" _No_ , Sam! We need to do some research first. We're not taking any chances." Sam's mouth sets, thin and hard, but he doesn't argue. Goes instead to the table and the laptop and opens it, settling into the only other chair with a scowl. _*Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fine. I'm right, Sam. Not going to risk you out of…pity.*_ Dean watches Sam type for a moment – watches him take out his cell and start scrolling through the hastily-snapped pictures he took of the scene. Sees him take a sharp little breath when one picture shows the dead kids. 

Then Dean goes to the sink and gets a cupful of water for Rafe.

 

Dean comes awake to the sound of voices, talking softly. He rolls over, his hand sliding away from the knife-hilt. Some habits aren't worth breaking. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, stifling a yawn. Feels like he hasn't slept at all. After some coffee and something drenched in syrup and possibly powdered sugar – he'll be awake. But right now he feels dazed and shaky and _cold_ , even though Sam's got the heater on. 

"Sam?"

"Night table," Sam says, and Dean squints into the lamp-light and finds a cup of coffee, steaming hot. He cradles it in his hands as he awkwardly swings his legs off the bed – slumps forward, elbows on thighs. If he could absorb the liquid through his skin he would, but for now he just breathes in the warm steam and tries to wake up.

"Find anything?" Dean asks, half the cup inside him now and his eyes actually staying open. He feels like hell, Sam _looks_ like hell and their guest – looks two days dead. All in all, it's not a pretty picture. 

Sam yawns, knuckles to his mouth. An uneasy hour or so for both of them, sleeping by turns and it's really not enough. "Yeah, I did. I think I know what we're dealing with."

"Okay. Hit me." Dean gets up and moves around the bed – settles again on the corner nearest Sam and then he notices something. "Dude – what the hell?" he asks, staring at Rafe. Who's still chained, yeah, but his legs are pulled up into the chair seat, the rope coiled up and tidy on the floor. The chain's laying slack, the cuffs on the dresser top.

"He had to use the bathroom, Dean. What the hell was I _supposed_ to do?" 

Rafe looks away, clearly not involving himself and Dean just stares down at his hands for a moment. At the black specks imbedded in his knuckles – at the ragged skin around his nails. He needs a shower, he needs to get laid, he needs a fucking drink. "Sam… Yeah, okay. So – what're we up against?"

"We think it's a demon, but – "

" _We_?"

Sam makes the face that means he's ignoring Dean. Or – ignoring what he's saying. "Most of the symbols were in Latin or Hebrew but some of them were angelic script. From what I can tell, we have something trying to become something else."

Dean rubs his hand over his face – scrubs it back through his hair. It doesn't help. "What?"

Sam makes an impatient noise and shifts a book out of the heap on the table – tilts it toward Dean. "In ancient Palestine, some of the first-born were sacrificed to 'Moloch', one of the Princes of Hell. They... burned them alive." Sam points to a passage and Dean squints, sleep-blurry eyes refusing to focus on the tiny, smudgy text. "Moloch is actually thought to be Ba'al or –"

"Sammy, please," Dean interrupts. "Half-awake version."

Sam almost smiles but it fades fast and Dean feels a flutter of unease in his belly. Rafe shifts in the chair, the chain clinking softly. "We think a demon is trying to bluff its way into heaven by transforming itself into an angel. Using borrowed…power, I guess. Power from those kids. Their…souls." Sam stops and breathes, his knuckles white on the spine of the book. "We think it was bargaining with Moloch for something. Information, probably. How to do it."

"Their souls? Are you sure, Sam?" 

Sam nods stiffly, putting the book back down – fidgeting with papers and pens – not looking at Dean. "Pretty damn sure, man."

"Christ," Dean mutters. He sits there, thinking. Sipping coffee and trying to get rid of the cold shivers going down his spine. Some…thing, taking souls. Some thing trying to get into a heaven Dean's not really sure he believes in… "Those kids weren't burned, Sammy."

"It burned selected…parts," Sam says, mouth turning down and his eyes going flat – angry. Dean remembers the thick, cooked-meat smell that had underlay everything else and grimaces.

"Fuck. Okay. So – what's _he_ got to do with all this?" Dean asks, shooting a hard look at Rafe, who cringes back just a little.

"We're not sure. Maybe he needed an adult sacrifice? Or –"

"Why can't he remember?"

"I don't know," Rafe says, frowning. "I was there first, before the…children. Maybe I know about… Maybe it needed…information…?"

"Oh, Jesus. You're just _guessing_ -"

"He's the one that recognized the angelic script, Dean." Sam starts flipping books shut – tidying away the papers he's scribbled on and Dean sighs.

"It just seems really _far fetched_ , Sam, you know? I mean – angels?"

"Don't you think they exist?" Rafe is looking at him curiously, his fingers working, working, working – wrists flexing under the chain. Smell of fresh blood in Dean's nostrils, blood and old iron and his stomach lurches a little.

"What I _know_ exists are monsters. Evil fucking monsters. If there are angels out there…they're sure not helping."

"Angels aren't the…good guys," Rafe says, and his voice is a little distant – a little strange. "They're terrible beings of fire and vengeance. Soldiers of God that no one may divert."

"Some stories say they taught humans things. Medicine and…" Sam waves his hand, yawning. "Stuff…skills. About love."

Rafe looks at Sam, his white face oddly shadowed by the bruises. His eyes, Dean notices, are a clear and crystalline grey, ringed with black. "They taught them about jealousy, too. About power and covetousness and desire... There wasn't a war in Heaven for nothing, hunter." 

Sam flinches a little – looks like he wants to object. Like he's going to whip out the laptop and start looking up examples of angelic goodness on Angels-R-Us dot com or something and Dean pushes himself to his feet. "Okay, great, angels suck, whatever. I'm starving. Sam –?"

"I think we really need to get that chain off," Sam says, leaning forward and looking at Rafe's wrists and Dean wants to tell him forget it. But Rafe looks like a five-year-old could take him out and he sure didn't try to hurt them back at the warehouse. "Dean," Sam says, looking up when Dean doesn't say anything. 

And Dean sighs, because what the fuck else is he gonna do? "Yeah, okay. Jesus."

"He actually _was_ a good guy," Rafe says, and Sam laughs. He's got his lock-picks out again and he bends over the snarl of chain, delicately probing the padlock's innards. Dean shoves his Glock into his waist and a rosary in his pocket and wishes he had something else – something more. Wishes he had the Colt and one more bullet but that's…lost now. Like so much else. So he just stands there watching Sam do his thing and eventually the Master Lock clicks open, stiff with grime and blood.

The revealed skin under the chain is a mess of bruises and deep welts – skin rubbed raw and bloody. It's not so bad around Rafe's throat but Sam still winces as he helps unwind the links and Rafe's eyes are wet, lashes clumped together, by the time Sam's done.

"Wow, that's really… I've got some Betadine and stuff, why don't we clean this up?" Sam says, rolling the filthy sweater-sleeves up. Dean wants to tell him to stop being so fucking _nice_. Rafe just gets up, stiff and shaky, and shuffles to the sink that's against the far wall. Sam follows him, first aid kit in his hand. 

Dean slumps back down onto the bed. _*Never gonna get anything to fucking eat.*_

 

Chatham boasts several restaurants – quaint tourist attractions for the July crowds. They're all closed. The only thing open in mid-January is the kind of diner Dean and Sam practically grew up in: worn vinyl and flyers for potluck dinners – mismatched salt and pepper shakers. It's crowded with locals, the air full of that flat East Coast drawl – full of talk of fishing and tides and boats. It's a little past seven a.m. and a thin snow is drifting down out of the leaden sky. Rafe sits with his hands cupped around the thick pottery of a squat, white mug, sipping hot chocolate like it's going straight into his veins. Maybe it is. Dean's on his second cup of coffee before their food even comes. 

There's a church across the street and Sam's talked his way in – gotten an old pair of sneakers, darned army socks and a ratty wool coat for Rafe. The coat smells, faintly and not unpleasantly, of cedar and church incense. 

The diner smells of hot grease and sugar and it's comforting. Dean considers the fucked-up-ness of that and then decides he doesn't care. Sam is here and that's really all that matters. All that's mattered for most of Dean's life. Sam's pushing his bangs out of his eyes and chewing on that damn hangnail again. Flipping through a book from the trunk, pencil dancing between long fingers as he scans the crabbed text. Dean wishes he could reach over – push Sam's hair back for him. But that's not what they do, and especially not with company around, so he contents himself with looking until he notices Rafe is looking, too.

But Rafe's looking at _him_ and Dean glares, knuckles whitening around his coffee cup. "What," he snaps, and Rafe's too-pale eyes flicker over to Sam – back to Dean. And he _grins_ , sharp white teeth like a fox, tip of his red tongue.

"Do you know I can smell the sin on you, hunter?" he says, and Dean's across the table, fists in the scratchy lapels of the coat. Yanking Rafe up and over, heedless of cups scattering to the floor.

"What the _fuck_ did you just say to me?" Dean snarls and Rafe's fingers lock around Dean's forearms like iron. There's blood spotting through the gauze wrapped around Rafe's wrists and Dean's much too close to those sharp fox teeth.

"It's like caramel and cream…ooh, rich enough to make you... _sick_." Rafe's tongue licks out over his lips and the musky scent of incense swirls in Dean's nostrils, thick and warm. "I could eat it, the air of your sin. Incest, murder…do you have _no_ shame?"

"I will _kill you_ ," Dean growls, and Rafe laughs – barking fox-laugh, his eyes snapping fire.

"You'll try."

"Dean – _Dean_? Hey, you okay?" 

Dean blinks – flinches automatically from the hard grip on his shoulder and then he blinks again and it's Sam, staring at him. Shaking him just a little and their waitress is standing there, loaded tray and a look of annoyance. "Huh?"

"Let her put our order down, Dean," Sam says, letting go of Dean's shoulder – leaning back. Dean leans back as well, automatic mimic – looks over at Rafe. He's pressed back tight into the corner of the booth, looking at Dean with wide, frightened eyes. The cups aren't spilled.

"Yeah, okay," Dean says, and watches the waitress slide plates of eggs and bacon and French toast and hash browns onto their table. She tops up the coffee cups and stomps away and Sam glances over at Rafe – looks back at Dean.

"Dude, what the hell? You were kind of…out of it."

"I don't… I dunno." Dean's gaze lifts and travels over the crowd and he takes a deep breath. "I'll tell you in the car, okay? I'm – okay."

"You sure?" Sam's eyes are wide with worry and a little impatience and Dean nods – finds Sam's foot under the table and presses gently. 

"Course I’m sure. Let's eat before it gets cold."

Pressure returned – worry fading just a little and Sam picks up his roll of napkin and utensils – unrolls his fork from its white paper shroud. "Yeah, okay." 

Sam starts forking up eggs and hash browns and Dean cuts his French toast, powdered sugar dissolving into the syrup. Eating fast, wanting _out_ of there. It takes Rafe a little longer but eventually he eats too, head down and hands shaking and Dean's fingers touch the hilt of the knife at his hip again and again.

Meal finished and out in the car again, the steering wheel like ice under his fingers. Dean stares at Rafe in the rearview mirror. Sam slides into his seat and slams his door – twists around to look at Dean, all business.

"Okay, tell me what happened."

"I was…you were looking at that book and I was…"

"You were staring at me like I was gonna disappear," Sam says dryly, and Dean's eyes widen in surprise. 

" _No_ , I –"

"Dude, you do it all the time. I'm used to it." Sam's smile is amused and easy and Dean sputters around for another moment before just giving up. Sam _always_ knows. Damn him.

"Fine, whatever." Dean shoots a look back at Rafe, who's studiously avoiding looking at Dean. "Cool guy back there was staring at me and I – said something and then _he_ said something and it really pissed me off and I –" Dean flexes his fingers around the steering wheel, watching the scars on his knuckles whiten. "I grabbed him and jerked him up and my coffee hit the floor and so did yours."

Sam blinks – looks back at Rafe, back to Dean. "Dean, that…didn't happen."

"I _know_ that. I mean – I know it didn't _really_ but…it really _did_. In my – head or something."

"What – what did he say?"

"Oh _fuck_ , Sammy –" Dean starts the car – pulls out into traffic with a jerk, windshield wipers squeaking as they clear the snow off the glass. There's no fucking way he's going to repeat what hissed out of Rafe's hate-twisted mouth. "I really don't wanna talk about it, okay? Just a bunch of shit."

"Dean –"

"I don't – remember," Rafe says, and Dean flicks a glance at him – negotiates a turn, careful of the snow blowing across the road in curling streamers. "I m-mean – I felt…strange, as if I were…looking at myself from outside." Sam twists more, one arm on the back of the seat, leg tucked under. Dean wants to tell Rafe to just shut up.

"Like – an out of body experience? Like you were – floating?"

"As if…I were watching a – a movie. Standing there… I saw your brother pull me up but… I couldn't feel it. I couldn't hear what we…said." His eyes meet Dean's in the rearview and Dean knows – _knows_ – it's a lie. Knows Rafe remembers every second of it. Dean has no idea _why_ he's lying, but...he's grateful.

 _*Just don't forget that he said it. Doesn't fucking matter – not gonna trust you, motherfucker.*_ Dean gives the tiniest of nods to Rafe's reflection and Rafe looks away, huddling down into his coat. He still looks like death warmed over despite the food – still looks as if he's going to collapse in a strong wind. But still… _*Not forgetting, no matter what.*_

 

The library is useless to them this time – there's nothing to research, no pattern to find. This is a demon like the one before; terrible and single-minded and not in the books and Dean watches Sam frown over the laptop and make a few phone calls. Watches him rub his forehead and close his eyes for a minute, wincing. Ever since the visions – the 'powers' – headaches come easier. Last longer. Another thing Dean can't fix – can't take on himself. 

"Sam – take a break, okay?"

"I just need to follow this lead," Sam mumbles, knuckling his eyes one last time and leaning forward again, hunching his long frame over the laptop in a way that makes Dean wince.

"Follow it in half an hour, Sam. You're starting to look worse than _him_." Rafe jerks his head up out of a half-doze, curled in a knot in the other chair. Sam had offered to let him get a shower – loan him some clothes, but Rafe said he felt too tired, just wanted to sleep. And that's what he's mostly been doing for the past six hours while Sam carries on his fruitless, frustrating search. While Dean cleans guns and sharpens knives and suggests things and watches Sam. Fights his own exhaustion with cup after cup of poisonously bad coffee from the machine set up in the motel lobby.

Sam rubs his eyes again and Dean sighs – gets up and digs into his pocket for some dollars – goes over and pushes Sam back by the shoulder. "Go get some sodas, okay? Some...chocolate or something. Stand up and unkink your spine before you turn into a fucking hunchback."

Sam gives Dean a _look_ but he levers himself upright – shrugs into his coat and takes the money from Dean. Dean follows him to the door – steps out behind him, taking a deep breath. The air is cold and damp – full of the smell of the ocean and snow. It goes right through Dean's flannel and t-shirt. Dean tips his face up to the tiny flakes that are still falling, blown sideways by an ever-present wind off the sea. Lets his eyes go half shut and so is totally unprepared when Sam's mouth touches his. When Sam's fingers slide, warm and gentle, along Dean's jaw and into his hair. 

Dean kisses back with a sharp, surprised intake of breath, his own hand flat to Sam's chest, the other curling into the heated space between Sam's coat and his ribs. Sam makes a little sound – breathy encouragement – and Dean groans softly. "Sam, Sammy…"

"I know," Sam whispers back. Lips just brushing against Dean's, his thumb resting light and steady on the pulse of Dean's throat. "I just…needed that."

"Yeah." Dean lets his hand stroke down, ribs to hip, and then he's stepping back and leaning against the door jamb and Sam's giving him that shy-boy grin – the one Dean can't help but return. But then he lets it go, serious again. "We'll figure this out," Dean says, and Sam nods.

"Root beer?"

"Only if there's no Mountain Dew."

"Okay." Sam stalks away into the dim whiteness of the snow-filled air, mist coiling around his feet as he turns the corner, heading for the vending area. Dean licks his lips and shivers – ducks back inside. Rafe is awake, watching him with the slit-eyed intensity of a feral cat.

"Sam went to get some soda," Dean tells him and Rafe unfolds from his huddle in the chair – takes three steps and Dean's backing up, hand going out to the jacket slung over the bed and the gun half-hidden under it. Rafe _slinks_ and Dean feels like he's swallowed a frozen stone.

"Sam. Samuel. Your _brother_. He has his voice of God – blessed among men. And you would take it from him." 

Dean's reaching hand finds the gun – wrought iron inside it, blessed and anointed with myrtle and bay. The grip slides into his palm and he lifts it, his hand steady. "Back the fuck up," he says, and Rafe smiles.

"It wasn't that Abel's gift was better before God, but that he wished to marry and rut upon his wife." Rafe's voice is low and honeyed, the rasp gone to something like a purr. Dean swallows down panic and bile and lowers his head, just a little. Sighting carefully.

"Cain lusted for his brother, and killed him to keep him. Satan-El tempted Jesus in the desert – eldest wooing the youngest, jealous of the favored son. Is that why you lured your brother into sin, hunter? To stain his snowy wings?"

"Whatever you are, get out. If that body dies, so do you."

Rafe looks down at himself – lifts the sweater up and off in one smooth motion. His bare skin is white as salt – smooth and perfect and Dean stares in utter confusion. "What – the fuck –?"

"The only true sin…is lying," Rafe whispers. His hands stroke down his body – curl at his thighs as he steps closer, head down and his gaze fastened on Dean. "Lie about your lusts, lie about your desires…lie about your hate. What lies are _you_ telling, hunter?" He blinks and his eyes _gleam_ , shimmer of water on stone. Dean pulls the trigger.

The noise is too loud – the spark and smoke too much and Dean curses, ducking sideways, roll and crouch. Everything is static and buzz for a moment and then it comes clear. He can hear a thin, animal noise of pain and he lifts his head. Rafe is on the floor, halfway behind the chair. Sweater still on, thin hand clenched tight around thin bicep, blood welling between his knuckles. Dean stares at him and Rafe stares back.

"What the _fuck_ was that?"

"I think –" Rafe licks his lips, his eyes fluttering almost closed. "I think that was a distraction."

It takes ten seconds – a little less. Too long. Dean runs, but Sam is gone.

 

"You'd better tell me what the fuck is going on," Dean snarls, snatching Rafe up by his sweater – slamming him bodily into the wall. Rafe's white face goes a little green and there's blood on the wall now – a smear and a spatter and Dean doesn't fucking _care_. 

"I don't – I d-don't – know, I d-don't –"

"Yes you fucking _do_!" Dean leans in, fist in the collar of Rafe's sweater, knuckles digging into Rafe's throat. Other fist in the sweater arm, half his weight right _there_ on the wound and Rafe makes this strangled sort of noise, bloody hand clawing at Dean's chest, sweat on his face. "You remembered what you said to me at the diner and you _knew_ Sam was gone –"

"No I didn't, no, n-no, I just – I j-just –"

" _Tell_ me," Dean shouts, his heart beating so hard in his chest it hurts. "Tell me," he repeats, his voice cracking – dropping. "Or I'm gonna make you fucking _scream_."

Rafe is gasping – short, sharp little pants that barely pull in any air at all. His face is waxen – his skin cold against Dean's knuckles. Going into shock – maybe bleeding out, for all Dean knows. The sweater is sodden and warm, the wound pulsing slightly under Dean's fingers as Rafe bleeds.

"It – it – took something from me, it –"

"I _know_ this already!"

"It took something but it l-left something! It can – it can get in m-me, it can use me, it's like – it's like I'm a g-glove and it's just ss-s-slipping me on and I c-can't – stop it. Can't…ss-stop it." Rafe's teeth are chattering – his knees buckling and Dean lets him go. Watches him slide down the wall, legs crumpling sideways and his left arm dangling. When his hand hits the floor he cries out. 

Dean stares down at him – wipes his hand on his already spattered flannel. Panic dinning in him like a klaxon, heart going too fast and his lungs feeling crushed – pit of his belly aching. _*Sam's gone, Sam's gone, fuck, gotta think, what's it want? Why Sam? God, please...*_ "Why's it want him?" he barks, and Rafe looks up at him, his right hand clenched back down onto his arm. His eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide and his lips look too pale. 

"Wuh-why do you _think_? He's like a live wire – like a b-bonfire. You c-can't look away."

"Is that _you_?" Dean crouches down, roughly pushing back the strings of crow-black hair that lie across Rafe's face. "Who the fuck –"

"No, it's – me. It's…when you came into the w-warehouse he – blinded me. B-burned me…" Rafe's voice fades out – his eyes flutter shut, rolling back white and Dean curses.

 _*You're not fucking thinking. He dies, you've lost your connection. Save this bastard to save Sammy…God, oh GodohGod -*_ Dean bites the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood, stilling the hysterical inner voice that's ratcheting up the panic. Now's not the fucking time. He dives for the sink, grabbing a towel. The first aid kit's on the counter where Sam left it. Rafe is practically lying on the floor, blood a glittering smear on the wall behind him. Dean drops to his knees and hauls Rafe upright, wringing a thin shout of pain from him.

"D-d- _dooon't_ –"

"Shut up," Dean snaps. He grabs the hem of the sweater and wrenches it up and off, ignoring the yelp from Rafe. Jerks open the kit and scrabbles for the Betadine. He flicks the bottle-top open with his thumb – holds the towel up to catch some of the mess and pours. Rafe hisses, jerking away. The bottle is cold in Dean's hand. Blood and Betadine soak the towel, the carpet underneath and Rafe's thigh and Dean wipes roughly with the dry end of the towel, twisting Rafe's arm. Looking for and finding the exit wound on the back.

"It went through, probably in the wall or something… You're damn lucky whatever that was messed with my aim." Rafe makes a sort of disbelieving gasp and Dean grins at him, mirthless and furious. "I was aiming for your fucking head." He turns Rafe's arm again, studying the wound. "I need to stitch this shut…front and back…muscle's torn…it's gonna fucking hurt," Dean mutters, more to get his head straight than to tell Rafe – anything. 

Rafe laughs dryly, then coughs. "Hurts already…g-guess it can't get w-wuh-worse."

"Of course it can," Dean says. "Here, hold this tight," he adds, wrapping the towel around Rafe's arm. Then he's digging back into the kit, leaving blood and Betadine smears on everything as he looks for the suture kits. Thank Christ for the internet – you can buy any damn thing under the sun. Rafe watches him, knuckles white, blood under his nails.

When he's done – when Rafe's arm is firmly wrapped in gauze and an Ace bandage, Dean finally sits back with a sigh. "Okay. Now we gotta – get going. We gotta find Sam." 

Rafe looks up at him from his half-sprawled position, still pale as milk – still shocky looking. Blood smeared on his ribs and his belly and his jaw. Without the baggy sweater he's bruised and dirty and far too thin, and the bandages Sam wrapped so neatly around his wrists are smudged and unraveling. "You l-look like a crazy p-person," he says, and Dean wonders what that makes Rafe. 

Dean blinks – rubs his wrist across his eyes and pushes himself to his feet, looking blankly at the vivid stains. At the wrappers and suture-ends that litter the floor. He holds his hand out and notices, with a detached sort of dullness, that it's shaking. "C'mon. Trail's getting cold, we have to go." Rafe lifts his own hand – takes Dean's and gasps softly as he's pulled to his feet. He sways, eyes squinting shut and his fingers gripping Dean's tight. 

"My head's – spinning," he mutters and Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. 

"It's the blood loss. We've got some orange juice – over there." Dean waves his hand in the general direction of the dresser and mini-fridge. "Go drink some, I'm sure as fuck not gonna carry your ass. I'm gonna get cleaned up." Rafe nods silently and stumbles toward the dresser and Dean goes to the sink. There's a smear of blood on the wall – blood on the counter where Dean put his hand down and he turns the water on and leans there, eyes closed. Breathing – shaking – trying not to let the panic that's just under his breastbone get any higher. Any stronger. 

_*Can't stay here, not after I shot him – fucking lucky the cops aren't here already… Where would it go? Where would it take him? Back to the warehouse? Fuck, fuck…*_ Dean takes a hard, hitching breath and then another and just – stills. Crushes the internal panic down and shoves the seething fury away and goes into _there_. That space. That focused, feral place that's the only place you can be on the hunt. Something Dad never taught him, something he just…knows. It's cold here, and so minutely focused every edge seems to glitter. It's where he needs to be.

He washes his hands – his face. Barely seeing himself in the mirror, just making sure he's clean. Normal-looking because now is not the time for cops or questions or delays. Slicks a handful of water through his hair – strips off his flannel and t-shirt, turning the bloodstains to the inside. Wipes up the sink and counter and dabs at the wall with the sleeve of the flannel. It doesn't do anything but rub off some of the cheap beige paint. 

Rafe is standing there, shirtless. Drinking the orange juice in long swallows, his head tipped back. Rags of tangled black hair falling down over his back and that's when Dean sees it. Marks – lines – some kind of fucking _design_ on Rafe's back. Sigil or seal or who the fuck knows but Dean crosses to Rafe in four long strides, fist knotting in the hair and yanking it up, bundle of shirts falling to the floor. Rafe coughs orange juice over the dresser and tries to twist away and Dean grabs his wounded arm and shoves him hard into the cheap ply of the drawers. His cold – his icy resolve – is boiling away fast.

"What is this? What the _hell_ is this on your back?"

"I don't know!" Rafe says, his voice high with tension. Eyes showing white as he tries to look over his own shoulder. "I can't – see it. It h-hurts. I thought –"

"It's some kind of fucking – design. That script, angel script – what the _fuck_ are you trying to pull?"

Rafe shoves at the wall with his free hand, trying to get a little distance between his thighs and the dresser edge and Dean just grinds in closer, shaking him. Squeezing harder at the thin arm that's bruised almost black, swollen and hot from the wound. "I d-didn't know! I don't – don't remember –"

"That's getting _way_ too fucking convenient," Dean snarls and steps back. Jerks Rafe around and slams him back into the dresser again. Twists Rafe's head around by his fistful of hair, facing him toward the mirror nailed to the wall. "Look. Fucking _look_! What is that?"

Rafe looks, turning his head, pulling the long, greasy strands of hair out of Dean's fingers. Once he finally focuses on whatever's on his back he stills, eyes going wide. "I – I can't…" He twists and squints a little and licks his lips – looks at Dean. "Can you take a p-picture of it?" 

Dean huffs out a breath, annoyed and furious. Snatches his phone off the dresser and opens it – tugs Rafe around again by his shoulder, angling him toward the light. That's when he finally notices that the design is cut into Rafe's back. Thin, precise lines, looping and arching – covering him from the tops of his shoulder blades to the bottom of his ribs.

"How in fuck could you not know this is back here?" Dean growls and Rafe hunches a little, the hand holding his hair aside clenching tight.

"It – hurt. I thought…thought I f-fell or it…hit me. I c-can't –"

" _Remember_. I fucking know." Dean stabs at buttons, emailing the picture to himself. Rafe is twisting in front of the mirror again, squinting at his reflection. The marks are dark with dried blood – bruised purple and sickly green, livid and ugly on Rafe's pale skin. Dean sits down at the table, his fingers flying over the laptop's keyboard, opening up his mail account and then the picture, full-screen. "Here – look."

Rafe crouches down next to Dean's chair, staring at the screen. The edges of the picture have some weird shimmer to them, light reflected oddly off the mirror – something. "That's – angelic script. That's…it's a binding. It's for – locking something up. Forever."

"You mean _you_ ," Dean says, and Rafe looks up at him, pale eyes wide and scared – bewildered. Dean hits the 'print' button on the menu and twists in the chair, leaning closer to Rafe. "How the hell do you know what it is?" he says, and Rafe just shakes his head, licking his lips. "Where were you before it grabbed you?" 

"I…I was…" Rafe has his bad arm curled around his ribs, his other hand lifting to rub at his forehead. His gaze is distant – shuttered. "There was…someone. A w-woman. I knew her – I was g-glad to…to see her. And then…" Rafe's voice fades away and he stands up slowly, bracing on the edge of the table. Staring down at the rune – the spell that's been carved into his flesh. 

" _What_?" Dean asks – all but whispers, because Rafe… Rafe looks lost. Sad and small and younger than Sammy ever has. 

"Then I was falling."

 

It takes fifteen minutes to get everything packed up – cleaned up – stowed in the car. Dean ends up taking the blood and Betadine-stained towel, even though there's nothing he can do about the mess on the wall and floor. He shoves one of his own long-sleeved t-shirts at Rafe – digs out the hoodie Sam hasn't worn in a while and they both dress silently. Then they're in the car, driving. Driving _away_ , because there's no towards. Not yet.

"There's a reason you know all this stuff," Dean says, and Rafe plucks at a thread in the torn thigh of his filthy jeans. Huddles against the door and Dean wishes he hadn't told him to sit in the front. _*In Sam's seat.*_ But he couldn't have stood him in the back – _behind_ him. The thought alone makes cold crawl down Dean's spine. "Do you think the binding's why you forgot everything?"

"I don't...know." Rafe says. He straightens up just a little, pushing hair back out of his eyes. "And it's not _everything_. Just...some things."

"Yeah. But not angelic script. Or binding spells. Maybe you're a demon, too," Dean says, and Rafe twitches away, drawing his coat closer around his skinny ribs. 

"No I'm not. I can – can say the Lord's name. The holy water didn't b-burn –"

"I've seen demons who weren't burned by it before," Dean says and Rafe shakes his head hard. Dean's feeling worse and worse about _all_ of this. About the spell, about the failed hunt – about _Rafe_. Thinking this is a huge fucking mistake – thinking maybe they should have just left him for the police to find. Unless he really _is_ a demon and then that would have been…

Bad. 

Dean squeezes the steering wheel and tries not to skid on the corners, punchy from not sleeping and jittery from adrenaline. The snow has turned to something closer to drizzle and the sun is a flat, silver disc behind the clouds, sinking toward the western horizon. The sea off to their left is a dull, slatey grey, crisscrossed with the curling white of the wave-tops. Dean feels cold despite the heat roaring out of the Impala's vents. He doesn't know what to do. There's nothing to trace – nothing to track. Something took Sam – _Sam_ – without a drop of blood or a scuff of dirt. Without a sound, and what the fuck is out there that's good enough – _tough_ enough – to take down Sam?

 _*Nothing. Fucking…nothing. Now that the demon's gone…there's nothing.*_ Dean won't admit – even in the privacy of his own head – that this could be the same thing all over again. That they missed something – fucked up. That they're still in it, as deep as they ever were. It's making Dean want to hit something and it's looking like it might be Rafe when Dean's phone rings. Dean fumbles it out of his pocket and looks at the screen and almost drops it.

Sam – Sam's number – and Dean flips the phone open, hope and fury and terror leaping up in him like a shark, all teeth and single-minded intent. "Sammy?"

" _Not quite._ "

Woman's voice – a little hoarse, a lot amused – and Dean feels his gut clench. _*Meg*_ flashing through his mind before he shoves that impossibility away.

"Where's my brother?" he says, trying to make his voice dead-level. Calm. Trying not to scream. 

" _He's right here, Dean. But you're…not. I think that's a mistake._ "

"The only mistake is the one you made, fucking with us." Low laughter and sounds – footsteps? Then a sort of groan. Stifled – choked off. But Dean knows. _*Fuck. Damnit, Sam – God damnit…*_

" _The Holy Cross, hunter. **Hallowed** ground. Better hurry._ "

"What do you –" Dean asks. Tries to ask. But the line is dead and he snaps the phone shut a little too hard – resists the impulse to hurl it away from him. Rafe is turning around in the seat, leaning over the back. Dragging the laptop bag into the front with a grimace of pain – finding the printout of the thing on his back. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I think I can…break this. I think I know…"

"Oh, fuck me," Dean mutters, but he pushes down on the gas and _goes_. Puts some highway between them and the hotel and the bullet hole in the wall. The blood on the carpet. Get going and get out and figure out what Holy Cross is and what the _fuck_ he's going to do from the bolt-hole of the car. Let the sound of tires on asphalt settle his nerves and get his brain working. Ultimately, he's going wherever Sam is and if that means a confrontation with something that thinks it's an angel then…so be it.

 

It turns out Holy Cross is a church – a cathedral. The oldest one in Boston, and Dean gets onto state highway 3 and drives – as Sam says – like a suicide. The adrenaline buzz is _gone_ , flat gone and Dean knows he's too tired to be doing this. Going to do it, anyway. The snow has slacked off and the sun is gone, faded into nothing behind thick clouds that go from goose-down grey to ash to coal. The highway is clear – mostly deserted and Dean drives with white knuckles.

Rafe is sketching something on the print-out – adding a line, extending another. Working from memory, it seems, and Dean really doesn't get that. As Rafe squints in the glow of the flashlight, Dean sees him freeze suddenly – freeze and then flinch and then drop the flashlight, gasping.

"What – what?"

"Nnn…" Rafe puts his hand on the dash, leaning down, and Dean wants to hit him – wishes he could just open the door and push him out into the black-crested snow of the verge and be fucking _done_ with him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"N-nothing, I…just a little…light headed. My arm hurts."

"Too bad," Dean mutters, and Rafe pushes himself slowly upright – pushes his ratty hair back from his face and takes a drink of the orange juice he brought from the motel.

"How long?" Rafe asks, and Dean glances at the odometer – at his watch. 

"Half hour 'til we hit Boston then – gotta find the fucking church…"

"I marked it on the map," Rafe offers, showing a gas-station map of the Greater Boston area. There's a red circle in the middle of a dense grid of streets, blue water on both sides. 

"Fuck – hope there's not much traffic." Dean stretches his legs, pushing against the floorboard – cricks his neck this way and that and then settles again, thinking. Running through weapons, spells, exorcisms. Trying to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This thing – whatever it is – can stand on hallowed ground. Can take a canny and experienced hunter down in seconds flat. And is trying to pass itself off as an angel. Which makes Dean shake his head because angels, in his experience, are chicks in Victoria's Secret ads or figments of overactive imaginations. He doesn't know a single person who's ever seen one that he'd actually believe.

 _Dad_ had sure never mentioned them, and no fucking angel has ever stepped in on the side of good in all the hunts that Dean's been on. Evil makes itself known, gleefully – horrifically. Good seems to think that just the idea is enough and…it's not. Not for Dean, at least. 

"If I'm…what if it wanted to make me forget because it knows I can stop it?" Rafe says, and Dean flicks a glance his way. "What if I'm…its enemy?"

"What if you're competition?" Dean asks. "Where are you going with this?"

Rafe picks up the printout again – slides the beam of the flashlight over it. His face is drawn in the light, still smudged with blood high on one cheekbone. "If you – make these new lines, on my back…you'll break the binding. I think… I think you should." Rafe looks up – looks straight at Dean and his eyes seem to smolder in the oblique, yellow glow. Dean feels his heart skip a beat, painful little catch. Then Rafe looks down again – away – and Dean breathes slowly.

"I think that's a really bad idea."

"But what if I can help?" Rafe says softly. Long fingers lying over the printout, ragged nails, bruises across his knuckles.

"What if you get Sam killed? I'm not taking any chances. You don't even know – what you are. No fucking way."

"But what if –"

" _No_. Now shut up." Dean ignores the scowl – the tension in the bowed shoulders.

"I don't want to be…like this. Not forever."

"I don't actually give a fuck." Dean snaps. He reaches over and takes the printout, crumpling it in his fist – shoving it into his jacket pocket. Pushes the gas down a little further – a little harder. Fifty-three miles to go.

 

"What in fucking hell…?" Dean stops the car about half a block from the barricade. From the blue and red lights, the milling camera crews and the – oh _fuck_ – SWAT team members that are crouching behind plex shields and an armored van. The cathedral is right _there_ , so close Dean can practically taste it. Taste of bile because Holy Cross is the center of all of this, and that means _Sam_ is. _*God damnit, Sammy…you got grabbed by some kind of…media-whore demon? Jesus.*_

"What are…how can we get in there?" Rafe asks faintly, his fingers knotted in the hem of his shirt. He's tearing it a little and Dean never liked that t-shirt, anyway.

"I dunno. But I'll bet our little friend is gonna tell us." Rafe gives him an odd look but Dean ignores it – gets the car turned around and drives in right angles until he's found parking that looks safe, the bell-tower of the cathedral easily in sight. He gathers weapons and books into a hold-all – slides holy water and salt and fire into his pockets. Iron-bladed knife and silver-bladed one, bullets of every kind, all blessed with myrtle and bay. Anything and everything because _something_ has to work. Something _will_ work. Listening to the radio that's turned on low, excited voices through the speakers set right above the trunk.

_"Armed man holding at least ten parishioners and one priest hostage…four dead in the initial assault…seventeen wounded in early evening services…live on the scene…"_

"Fuck me," Dean mutters. Civilians only complicate things. Dean slams the trunk shut and pushes the hold-all into Rafe's arms, ignoring the wince when the hold-all hits the bandaged gunshot. Turns off the radio, fists a handful of Rafe's coat and starts walking. They slide through alleys and down shadowed streets, circling to the back of the cathedral. There's SWAT back here, too. More barricades, more tape – more lights. Dean jerks Rafe down into a crouch beside him, behind the salt-crusted bumper of an SUV. Bone-deep in that cold, clear place – cold enough that he doesn't even feel the ice-edged wind, or the frozen metal pressed into his shoulder.

"What do we do now?" Rafe breathes, and Dean turns to him – shifts his hold and pulls Rafe close.

"Now your little puppet-master figures it out. If we try to just walk in there, we'll be shot. So, _you_ – " Dean shakes Rafe ever so slightly, muffled chime of metal from the hold-all. "You get me in there, you hear?"

Rafe just stares at him, bewildered, and Dean's starting to think he's fucking nuts but then it happens. Sudden shift of stance – of Rafe's eyes and whatever it is that's got Sam is grinning at Dean – cutting its glimmering eyes over to the hulk of the cathedral, stained with too many spotlights.

"Pick your moment, hunter," it says, Rafe's voice a silken rasp and its words laced with amusement. 

There's noise, suddenly. Voices yelling – radios crackling to life and every hidden officer is suddenly fixated on something – someone – else. There's a scream from the front of the church – gunfire, and Dean jerks Rafe to his feet and into motion. And then they're both running, dodging – skimming through the barricades and up a shallow flight of stairs to a small door set back under a deeply-stepped stone lintel.

"Hey, you! Get the fuck out of there or I'll shoot!"

Dean slams his shoulder into the door, loosing his grip on Rafe – not giving a _fuck_ in that moment if Rafe makes it or doesn't. Focused on one thing, and that's getting inside. He hears running feet – hears more shouting and the doorway gapes suddenly, blackness where there had been wood and glass. Dean uses his momentum and just _goes_ , rolling sharply right as the first of the bullets ping harmlessly off stone or whir away into the darkness beyond. There's a rattle and a thud and then Rafe's slamming bodily into Dean, going down hard.

Dean grabs shirt and coat and heaves them both further into shadow. Just as the actinic white of a spotlight is dazzling over them, the door slams shut.

"Jesus…Christ," Dean pants.

"You wish." Rafe starts untangling himself, making a soft sound of pain as he works his hurt arm free of the hold-all's straps.

"What did it do? Do you know?" Dean gets to his feet – pulls his Glock free and clicks the safety off – chambers a round of blessed, wrought iron. Ready to go. 

"I…think… There was a priest. He was mostly dead. It…sent him out with a gun." 

Dean curses softly. Mostly dead is surely dead, now, and murdering some poor priest puts one more tick-mark in the 'kill it fucking hard' column in Dean's head. But it's also put every fucking officer out there on hyper-alert, and getting Sam free before they storm the place is getting less and less likely. "You saw it?" he asks, taking in the room. Light coming in through the high windows, splintering the darkness into strips. There is a door-less sort of closet along one wall, hung with the priest's vestments. Sink, crowded shelves – they must be in the sacristy behind the altar.

"I felt its...intent. Felt what it made the p-priest do." Rafe says, and Dean sees him shudder.

"Yeah? Fuck. Keep behind me and don't drop the fucking weapons, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Rafe mutters, pushing his lank hair back. He takes a long breath – puts out his hand and touches Dean's shoulder, stopping him. " _O Maria sine labe concepta, ora pro nobis, qui confugimus ad te…_ " he whispers, and it takes Dean a moment to translate it.

" _O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee…_ " 

It's a prayer for a good death and Dean almost hits him. "Shut up, you fucker," he grates, twitching away from Rafe's hand. "The only thing dying around here is the thing that's got Sam and it's not going to have anything _remotely_ like a good death." Rafe just stares at him, all bruises and bone in the salt-white dazzle, half his face shadowed and his eyes too wide. "If you have to fucking pray, pray something useful, for fuck's sake." Rafe's gaze wavers and then drops and Dean just can't...care.

He heads for the Gospel door, where the priests come in. Deliberately upsetting the order of things – going out through the in door. Change the direction. Change their luck, because they need something, right now. Need anything. They walk silently through the door – edge around the bulk of icons and carvings and whatever the fuck makes up the decorations in the apse. The air is thick with the sweet-musky scent of incense and Dean stands in the shadows for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. 

There's a blaze of candles on the altar. Dozens of them, hot wax in long streamers down the dull-green cloth. More of them on the floor – on every flat surface within ten feet of the altar. Circles of fire, overlapping. And there's someone standing there, angled out toward the nave and the pews, back to Dean. Someone _not Sam_ , and not some hapless civilian so Dean lifts the Glock and sights carefully. The air over the alter seems almost alive, shadow and candle-glow twisting and shivering and Dean takes a breath and lets it out – lets his finger slowly squeeze.

And the figure shifts – moves – turns to face him, twisting on the balls of its feet and crouching down beside…Sam. _*Oh, fucking hell!*_ Sam on his knees, bare to the waist. His arms strained back behind him, his face shadowed with bruises – blood on his cheek. His hair fisted in a tight grip, head yanked back and throat bared. Steel glints there, and wet scarlet. Sick rush of fear that Dean shoves brutally into the freezing depths.

"Want to try your luck, hunter?" the things says, and Dean – almost – does. But the thing is too close – half hidden behind Sam and the knife is touching Sam's throat. _Has_ touched, because there are three or four hair-fine lines of red there and blood has streaked down, pooling in the wells of Sam's collarbones. More blood on his chest, convolute design but Dean can't look at that right now. Can't pay _attention_ to Sam because getting him free comes before everything else. 

_'Let him go!'_ Dean wants to scream. Knows it won't do any good. So he circles instead, out of the shadows and around. Treading a silent half-circle on the thin carpet. There's a helicopter circling outside somewhere, steady _whup-whup_ of its blades rising and falling as it moves. Light comes in from random angles, setting the stained glass alight in flashes like lightning. Dean has the sense of people – maybe a dozen or so – out on the pews but he concentrates on the thing that's crouching like some obscene guardian angel at Sam's shoulder.

Woman-shaped, with a salt-pale face and hair like ragged black feathers, curling onto angled cheekbones. Mouth like a streak of blood and Dean wonders if it's drunk _Sam's_ blood. Eyes of infinite, flame-bright blue. The face looks too much like Rafe's for coincidence and Dean has a moment of gut-wrenching terror because he can't see Rafe, and what if Rafe's not a victim at all?

But a flickering glance shows Rafe at his left and behind, circling as warily as Dean. Clutching the weapons, lips moving, and that fractured Latin is a plea for mercy – for intervention.

"How about you let all these people go?" Dean says. "We don't need 'em, do we? It's just you and me."

"Oh, not quite. It's you _three_. Ménage à trois, isn't that what they call it?" The knife trails down Sam's throat – nicks the little hollow where collarbones and sternum meet and Sam doesn't move – doesn't flinch. Doesn't close his eyes, his gaze fixed on Dean. "But you don't share, do you, hunter?" she says. She lifts the knife up – lays it flat over Sam's heart. "You want to be the only one that sullies this soul." She twists her hand and Sam's head is forced to twist with it and Sam's chest lifts up in a hard, gasping breath.

"No, I don't like to share," Dean agrees. Moves again, making her turn. Making her shift on the balls of her booted feet. Ragged jeans and a t-shirt full of holes and a cracked leather jacket and what demon dresses like that? What demon finds churches so easy to invade? Rafe is behind Dean – Dean can all but feel him, back there. Soft little clink from the weapons he holds – shuffle of his feet and the sibilant, sighing prayers that whisper from his lips. Muffled sounds from the hostages in the pews, tiny snuffles and sighs.

A voice booms outside suddenly – amplified and echoing. Startling a cry from the pews – making the skin on Dean's back crawl. He hates that those people are there, behind him. Vulnerable and in danger and a fucking distraction he can't afford. The voice talks about phones – about demands. Asks how many are alive – can't some come out? Typical hostage crisis shit, and Dean wishes they'd shut the fuck up.

She ignores it – shoots a look of pure amusement toward the doors and outside. "They just won't give up, you know?" she says, and Dean nods a little.

"They tend to get excited over dead priests," he says back, and she grins at him. "I don't get excited over much, myself. But I'm _about_ to if you don't step away from him."

Black eyebrows arch and she laughs. Laughs and stands up, hands out to her sides. The knife glints ruddy gold in the light, stained with Sam's blood. "I'd _like_ to see you excited, hunter."

"Hope you enjoy it," Dean says, and pulls the trigger. _Onetwothree – fourfive_ , and she goes down hard. Somewhere behind him is screaming – yelling – and then Rafe's voice, rasping and cracked, shouting at the parishioners.

"Get out! Run out of here, hurry, _go_!" 

Dean assumes they do, because he hears running steps – gasping pants and little cries of distress. A sudden chaos of voices outside as the first of the hostages emerge. Dean crosses the space between himself and Sam in five long strides, stepping over the ring of candles. He goes down on his knees, gun trained on the still figure that's sprawled out between risers and the altar. Hand curling hard over Sam's shoulder, feeling skin slick with sweat. It's hot up here, hot from the flames, the air thick with incense and beeswax. And Sam looks like death warmed over; eyes socketed too deeply into a face pale as paper. "Sam, you okay?" he asks, and Sam laughs, a coughing sort of thing.

"I'm just fine and d-dandy," Sam says, and Dean wants to kiss his bruised mouth – wants to lift him up and take him _out_ of there. But there's something still needs to be done, and Dean's still in that good, cold place, seeing in black-edged brilliance. He passes the Glock to his left hand and draws the iron-bladed knife from its sheath – moves behind Sam. Sam's arms are wound, wrists to elbows, with the long, green-cloth stole of a priest. Dean slices it carefully, watching it fray and coil away from Sam's skin until it's nothing but a heap on the floor and Sam is leaning forward, arms cradled between his thighs. Gasping softly, his back a long, pale-tan curve in the honeyed light. Bruised even there, and Dean resists the urge to reach out and touch – to smooth away. Instead he puts the knife away – shifts the Glock back to his right hand. She's still lying there, and Dean hopes to fucking God they're right and she's an actual demon, not someone like Meg. Not a girl, trapped in her own skull.

"Can you walk?" Dean asks, and Sam straightens, grimacing. 

"Leg are asleep. Just – get me up." Dean gets his shoulder under Sam's arm – hauls as Sam pushes and then stands there, bracing him. Waiting the agonizing moments while Sam wobbles and curses and stomps his feet a little, shaky as a new colt. She – it – lies on the floor, arms flung wide. Knife still in her fingers and Dean lifts the gun and aims as she smiles.

"You really think it's that easy, hunter?"

"I can always dream," Dean says, but before he can even squeeze the trigger she's up and on him, slamming him back – knocking him to the ground. Sam reels – hits the floor beside them, his coordination shot. Then Sam's grabbing her – locking an arm around her throat and dragging her off Dean, shaking and clumsy but doing it.

"Rafe, we need the fucking bag!" Dean yells, rolling and scooping up the fallen Glock – dropping the half-empty clip of wrought-iron and slapping in the clip that's silver and lead, marked with crosses and blessed with myrrh and mistletoe. Maybe they'll work better.

Sam's still grappling with her, wrapping his daddy-long legs around her hips and forcing her chin up, grimacing in pain as she claws at his face – manages to drive her head backward into his nose. " _Damnit_. Dean –!"

"Let her go – move!" Dean shouts, rising up to his knees and Sam pushes her, flinging her away and throwing himself sideways and Dean shoots, full clip straight to the heart. She goes down again, dragging the altar cloth with her. Cascade of candles, wax – fire.

"Here – oh God –" Rafe is shoving the hold-all at Dean, his gaze fixed on the spreading pools of burning wax.

"Give it to Sam - deal with that fucking fire before everything catches!" Dean snaps, and Rafe pivots and pushes the hold-all into Sam's hands. Dean jerks the wax-stiffened altar cloth off her body, letting Rafe take it to smother the fire. She's lying with her eyes wide open, her chest a mass of blood and broken bone. But she's alive, air whistling into her lungs with every hitching, too-wet breath. 

Her gaze fixes on Dean. "Not – enough, hu-hunter," she rasps, her hands scrabbling at the floor. Trying to push herself up and Dean fumbles in his pocket for another clip. Finds the crumpled print-out instead and almost tosses it aside. _*Oh, man, what if -*_

"Sam – hey, look at this," Dean says, turning to Sam just in time to catch the container of salt Sam's tossing him. Dean lobs the print-out to Sam and then catches the Balm of Gilead Sam throws next and turns back to the demon, scattering salt and oil in a hasty circle. She twists in the center, limbs slowly gaining coordination but not fast enough. He adds holy water – douses her with it and she arches up in a silent scream, the mess of the gunshot wounds smoking. "Can we use it on her? Bind her?"

"What is it?"

"It's on Rafe's back. He said it was a binding." Dean feels secure enough to look back over his shoulder at Sam. Sam's eyebrows go up and he studies the print-out – looks down at himself. 

"It looks the same as... Dean, she said she was binding me _to her_. My...soul. Like the children." 

"Oh." No fucking way they're binding this bitch to either one of them. And... _bound_. Not good. "Rafe said he figured out how to break it. See those extra lines? We break it _first_. Get you free."

"Yeah...maybe," Sam says, slow. Like he's weighing all the pros and cons in his head. His eyes look dead, muddy and not quite tracking right and Dean feels fear twist in his belly like cold, coiling snakes. 

"Don't really have time for a discussion, Sam," Dean says, eyeing the thing in the circle. She's managed to get to her knees and she's painfully scraping a gap in the circle, the flesh of her hands sizzling. Glaring at him, teeth bared in a bloody snarl. 

_*And she's got Sam's soul. Fucking bitch.*_ Dean unsheathes the knife at his waist – goes down to his knees in front of Sam. Sam glances over Dean's shoulder and nods, taking a deep breath. Dean studies the print-out for a moment and then starts to cut, one hand in a death-grip on Sam's shoulder. Sam tries not to flinch but Dean can feel the little twitches going through him. Dean shrugs his jacket off one arm and wipes at the blood on Sam's chest with his shirt-sleeve – cuts again and again. 

Seventh, eighth – ninth cut and Sam's back arches into a rigid bow as _something_...hits him. Shockwave of moving air and light that passes through Dean like sunlight, warm and sweet. For one moment the air around Dean is full of the scent of bay and mint and the sea and then it's over – done – and Sam's staring at Dean and Dean's staring back, feeling the grin on his face. There's color in Sam's face now – life back in his eyes. "Jesus –"

" _Wow_. That was -"

"Yeah –" The thing in the circle makes a noise like a scalded cat – pure fury. 

"Really don't have time for that," Rafe says, snatching the knife out of Dean's hand. "Do it. Fix mine, too."

"Hey!" Sam's scrambling to his feet, book in hand and Dean pushes himself up, turning to look. She's still scraping at the salt, with fingers that are showing bone on the ends. Blood has soaked the front of her shirt and jeans and Dean swears he can see lung – can see the faltering pump of her heart. 

"Dean – here. We can use this." Sam tilts the book toward Dean, the one Bobby gave them – _Key of Solomon_. "We can seal her into her body – lock up her power." 

Dean scans the glyph – the text. "You sure, Sammy?" 

Sam glances at her – looks back at Dean, his gaze steady. There are broken capillaries in his left eye, startling bloom of scarlet across the white. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Okay – let's get this show on the road, then." 

"No – come on – please?" Rafe's holding the print-out in one shaking hand – holding the knife. "You have to do this first, _please_ , I don't want to stay – stay like this –"

"It's okay, we can do this first," Sam says, and Dean can't tell if he's lying or not. He's got his 'everything's fine' face on – the one that charms church ladies and paranoid Sheriffs and really – Sam's just _that_ fucking good.

"What he said," Dean says, and he and Sam both turn toward the demon. She's gasping for air now – a froth of blood and bubbles over her lips, her skin ashy and running with sweat. She's _raveling_ at the edges – bits of herself furling away into the shifting air above the altar. And the circle is broken. Inch-wide gap, but that's all it takes. She's trying to get her feet under her, and they're out of time. "So – where?" Dean says, moving fast and Sam tugs the knife out of Rafe's hand.

"Doesn't matter." 

"Okay then." Dean leans down and hauls her up by the blood-slick lapels of her jacket. She comes into his arms easily, too light. Snarling like a trapped dog. Dean holds her at arm's length and punches once, solid, and her head snaps back – her scrabbling fingers go limp as she buckles. "You're up, Sam," he says, easing her back down – locking his arms across her collarbones, avoiding the mess the bullets made of her chest.

Sam kneels down over her thighs – pushes up the rags of t-shirt to expose her pale belly and begins. The glyph is deceptively simple but it makes Dean's eyes ache to look at it, and Sam's hands are shaking by the time he's done. Then the last line curves into her flesh and she seems to...shrink. To become somehow more and _less_ all at the same time. The sliver of pupil that Dean can see under her lashes is blue-grey and glazed. 

"Okay – that's...it. She's..."

"Dying. And they're coming. D-Dean? They're coming – they're coming in." Rafe is kneeling, too – looking like he's going to be sick. Staring wide-eyed at the near-corpse in Dean's arms, the print-out crumpled under his fist. " _Please_ , they're coming in and –"

"Fuck, okay – okay," Dean says, squirming out from under...her. It. Whatever it is. Her breathing has gone to hoarse little barks, rasping and ugly and Dean wipes his hands on his thighs and looks around. Clip there – knife there – bag and salt and bottle that had the oil in it. Sweeping up everything they've used while Rafe clumsily strips out of coat, hoodie and shirt and Sam smoothes the print-out and lifts the knife again. Last glance at what is surely a corpse, blood pooling out onto the battered carpet.

" _You! In the church! You're out of time – we're coming in! Put your weapons down and lie on the floor! We are armed and prepared to shoot!_ "

"Fuck, fuck - _fuck_ -" Dean shoves the book into the hold-all and zips it shut – sees Sam's shirts and coat wadded under the altar and snatches them up. "Sam – we gotta go, _now_."

"Hang on, hang on –" Sam mutters, lip between his teeth and the knife moving here, there. Last cut and he sags a little. Absently pats Rafe's bare shoulder. "Okay, I'm done, that's it."

"I don't – feel anything. I don't –" Rafe says. And then...

Light. Heat. Sound that isn't sound, but that rings through Dean's bones as if they're hollow. He can't stand up under it – can't see, can't hear. He knows he's yelling – he can feel his throat working. But – nothing. Clumsily, he gropes forward into light so bright it's blinding him through squeezed-tight lids. Touches something – something warm under rough cloth and it's Sam, Sam's calf – Sam's knee and his hand is an inch or so higher when it all just – stops.

 

"Sam? _Sam_!" 

"I'm here," Sam says and Dean lurches around, half-falling. Hand on icy, wet concrete and the nova of light and _loudnoisetooloud_ is finally dimming. Stopping and slipping away and everything fades back into normal a blink at a time. Dean gets his feet under him, crouching right next to Sam, who's sitting on the curb. Sitting under a winter-bare tree, wet leaves and snow melting into their jeans. Sam's shivering – shaking so hard his teeth are chattering and Dean dazedly looks around. The hold-all and bundle of Sam's clothes are lying half in the gutter and Dean staggers up and grabs them – shoves thermal and flannel and coat at Sam, all blessedly dry.

Everything – his own clothes and Sam's and the hold-all – smell like new-mown hay and apples and wet, rich earth. Summer smells in the dead of winter and Sam holds the sleeve of his coat up to his nose for a moment, sniffing.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah, I... I guess I am. What – the hell?"

"I dunno, man." Dean shoulders the hold-all, looking around. He can hear the police, still – disjointed and static-ridden bursts of radio conversation, faint with distance. The air strobes red and blue and white and the helicopter is circling back, spotlight flickering madly. Seems like they're about a block from the church. "I really just don't fucking know but...time to unass this AO either way."

"Oooh, yeah. Damn right." Sam holds out his hand and Dean hauls him up and Sam pulls on his coat – rubs a hand wearily back through his hair. There's soot and blood on his face – dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes and Dean has to lean in and kiss him. Nothing too crazy, just a momentary press of lips – just Dean's palm flat and gentle on Sam's chilled, stubbled cheek.

"Sure you're okay?" Dean murmurs, and Sam nods jerkily, pushing his forehead into Dean's – letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just...fucking starving, man."

Dean laughs softly – leans back and gives Sam's shaggy hair a rough caress. "Now I _know_ you're fine. C'mon – car's thattaway." They stumble off into the darkness, shoulders brushing and hips bumping, the tail-end of fight-or-flight chemicals making them both a little scattered. Fat, wet flakes of snow spiral lazily down out of the tar-black sky. 

"You think she's dead?" Sam asks, and Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, hunching a little. Cold and starting to get the shakes. 

_*Need some damn coffee. Need some fucking food and a bed and Sam...*_. "Yeah. I mean – locking up her power..."

"It was like she got...human. Or s-something." Sam's teeth are still chattering and Dean wants to wrap his arms around him. Wants to just be fucking done with this. 

"No way she survived that." Image of shattered ribs and the pulp of exploded lungs – heart pouring out blood like an obscene fountain. _*No way.*_

"You think Rafe did?" 

Dean glances over at Sam, whose gaze is intent on the sidewalk, navigating half-melted ridges of old snow and patches of ice. "I...dunno. I think he was...something else too. You know?"

"Oh, yeah. Something else." 

They walk on, and through the clear, thin air comes a steady chime of bells. Dean half-turns, glancing up. The Holy Cross bells, chiming out the quarter, half and three-quarter hours. Then chiming the hour itself and Dean counts in his head. * _...Ten...eleven...twelve...*_. "It's tomorrow," Dean says, and Sam grins – bumps Dean with his shoulder. Looks at him, tired eyes in a bruised face but _there_ and safe. Back where he belongs.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Happy birthday."

 

 

A week later they're in Key West and it's seventy-something fucking degrees and Dean's pretty sure the whiplash from winter to summer's made him catch a cold. That's his excuse, anyway, for lying around in the hotel room with the windows open and the TV on, watching re-runs of _M*A*S*H_ and eating M &M's. Sam's been in and out half a dozen times, getting conch salad and crab cakes and some weird wheat-grass drink, threatening Dean with zinc lozenges and vandalism if he doesn't help with the damn laundry _now_. 

"Next load's gonna have a whole _cup_ of bleach in it," Sam warns, picking through the detritus of the dresser-top for more quarters. "Your lucky red shirt. That blue one that you claim makes you look like James Dean." Sam's gaze slides sideways, watching Dean. Mean and narrow and calculating. Dean feigns nonchalance. "The _John Bonham_ shirt, Dean."

"Oh, you wouldn't dare," Dean breathes, but Sam's looking pretty annoyed and a little sweaty – sand on his bare feet and Dean knows when enough's enough. "Fine, Jesus. I'll save you from having to fluff and fold, you whiner."

"Like I'd fold your junk," Sam scoffs, but Dean knows he would, anyway. Sam can't _not_ fold the laundry, it's genetic. Dad never left a t-shirt unrolled or a pair of jeans un-creased. Dean chalks it up to the Marines.

He rolls off the bed and shoves his feet into his boots; just 'cause you're forty feet from the Gulf doesn't mean you let your guard down. Plus, two words: broken glass. Sam acts like his feet are bullet-proof. Acts like the rest of him might be, too but he still winces when he stretches too hard. The glyph on his chest is fading but not fast enough for Dean. In the mid of the night Dean's traced it with fingertips and tongue, thigh across Sam's thighs and thumb rubbing slowly over the point of Sam's shoulder. Just making sure. For once, Sam lets him – leaves the heart-to-heart for another day.

Their ratty little motel faces west and the setting sun floods the room with light so rich and thick it's like syrup. Saffron and salmon and the pink of clover – the far, high arch of the sky shading from frail Kindergarten blue to dusky plum. It gilds all Sam's edges – makes him look unearthly, even in that stupid damn dog shirt. Sam just rolls his eyes when he catches Dean staring. Dean grins back, unapologetic. Stretches hard and follows Sam to the laundry room, bag of M&M's crackling.

There's someone sitting on their washing machine, feet swinging idly. Someone in ratty canvas sneakers and torn jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves chopped off that's really very...familiar.

"Hello, hunter," Rafe says, grinning at Dean and Dean stops dead, grabbing at Sam's arm and trying – unsuccessfully – to pull his brother behind him. The M&M's hit the floor with a sound like stones rattling in a cup. "Oh. I'm sorry," Rafe says, eyeing the scattering candy with what looks like disappointment.

"What are you...what do you want?" Sam asks, and Rafe leans forward, bracing his palms on the chipped edge of the washer. His muscled arms are smooth and pale – no sign of the gunshot wound, no sign of any wound.

"I just wanted to say thank you. For breaking the binding."

"Okay," Sam says, and Dean snorts in pure frustration. 

" _Okay_? Jesus –"

"I'm not your enemy, hunter," Rafe says. He hops off the washer and stands there. Shorter than Dean, all whipcord muscle and bone. Fragile-looking, but Dean learned long ago not to take things like that at face value.

"We don't really know _what_ you are," Dean points out, and Rafe grins.

"I know. But I do." Rafe crouches slowly – picks up the half-spilled bag of candy and picks one out – offers the bag back to Dean, who shakes his head. Rafe shrugs and tosses the yellow M&M into his mouth. "I remember. And I owe you a debt." He puts the M&M's down on the washing machine and takes the few, small steps that put him just way too fucking close to Sam and Dean moves in front of his brother on pure reflex.

"Nothing owed, we're even," Dean says, because you _don't_ take favors from things like this – whatever this is. You don't make deals, you don't swear promises, and you don't let them in. Ever. 

Rafe just stands there, looking up at Dean, the clear grey of his eyes flecked with silver, shimmer of sunlight on ice. "She just wanted to go home. But you can't ever do that, hunter, can you? Not without consequences." Dean just shakes his head. Not sure where this is going – not happy to have Rafe so close. "Do you remember," Rafe says slowly, "That I said your brother blinds? That he burns like a bonfire..."

Little noise of startlement – maybe protest – from Sam that Dean ignores. "Yeah?"

" _He_ burns but you, hunter...you attract. Lodestone." Dean doesn't know what to say to that so he just stands there, totally unprepared for Rafe reaching out and taking his right wrist – putting his left hand palm to palm with Dean's right. Rafe's skin is hot – burning hot, and Dean feels it to his bones.

"Hey!" Dean tries to snatch his hand back and he _can't_. He can hear Sam saying something – feel Sam's hand on his shoulder but it's blurry, far away. It's drowned in the noise that's like the rushing of a thousand wings – like tide and heartbeat and time, thrumming through Dean's body. Nothing but the white-ice glimmer of Rafe's eyes and then Rafe's stepping back, letting him go, and Dean feels as if he just missed the last step. Comes back to himself with a jerk and a gasp, his heart pounding.

"If ever you can't go on, hunter...if ever the dawn seems impossible. My name will bring me. _Lech le'shalom_." Rafe turns and scoops up the M &Ms, grinning that fox-toothed grin and then he's just – not there. 

"Dean? You okay? What the fuck did he do?" Sam's jerking Dean around by his arm – grabbing Dean's hand and tilting his palm to the light. There's a mark there, curving lines in a dull henna-red. Even as they stare down at it, it fades into nothing and Sam scrubs at Dean's palm with his thumb.

"What – do you know what that was?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head.

"Angelic script. I gotta –" They both jog back to the room, and Sam roots out a print-out he made three days ago, frowning down at it. 

"Sam?"

"It's a name, Dean. An archangel."

"Which one?" Dean rubs absently at his wrist, Rafe's touch still burning through his skin. 

"Raphiel. The angel Raphiel."

"Is he a...good guy? I mean –"

"He's not one of the angels that fell," Sam says, and tosses the print-out down. He takes Dean's hand in both of his and studies it for a long moment and then squints over at Dean. " _Christo_."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Dean mutters, but he lets Sam tug him closer – let's Sam press a kiss to the tingling, hot-cold center of his hand. Sam snorts out a jerky breath and Dean realizes he's laughing. "What the hell, man?"

"Touched by an angel," Sam wheezes out and Dean rolls his eyes. 

Gives Sam a hard push that sends him windmilling back into the bed, where he sits hard. "Touched by something," Dean says, nudging Sam's thighs apart and putting a knee on the edge of the mattress – pushing Sam back with a hand in the center of his chest. "Want me to touch you?" Dean whispers, hovering there – feeling Sam's heart under his fingers, steady double-thump that never falters.

"Yeah," Sam whispers back, and Dean dips down, closer. Close enough to feel the warm, sharp puffs of Sam's breath on his lips. 

"Where? Tell me where," Dean says, and Sam's lids are half-shut, his pupils gone wide. Flush coming up hectic and warm in his cheeks. 

"Here," Sam says, his fingertips brushing his jaw, so Dean kisses him there. Kisses him again on his throat – his collarbones. On the hollow where there's still a mark from the knife and Sam shudders when Dean lets his teeth scrape, so lightly. 

_'Here...here...here...'_ and Dean follows Sam's fingers – tastes with an open mouth the skin of shoulder and sternum and ribcage. Sam's shirt pushed up and twisted in Dean's hand, Sam's thumb rubbing over and over the ridge of Dean's hipbone. 

Outside, the sun is well and truly down, the sky shading to navy and velvet black, low smolder of violet all along the edge of the glinting, hidden sea. The waves rush in, a dry crooning that's the rhythm of Dean's breaths – the slow, steady lift and fall of their bodies. Sam's skin tastes like honey and salt and the warmth of his hand, palm to palm and fingers locked with Dean's, erases the lingering sensation of Rafe's touch.

 _*Bonfire,*_ Dean thinks, gaze doing a slow sweep of Sam's body. Following the lean curve of shoulder and chest and hip – watching Sam's eyes flutter shut and then open again as Dean eases himself slowly into slick, clenching heat. _*Don't need an angel...got all of heaven I can take right here...*_ Words he'd never say aloud but he lets his lips shape them against Sam's mouth – lets his tongue trace them over Sam's bones. 

" _Dean..._ " Sam sighs, curve of his shoulders like angel's wings – the devil in the twist of his hips. 

"Here, I'm here, Sam...don't ever..." More words he won't ever really say, but Sam knows. Sam _knows_ , like he always does. Knows what Dean means – knows what to say.

"Won't," Sam says. "Won't ever...never... _Dean..._ " In a cracked, sand-rough voice, soft as any whisper – more sacred than any prayer.

It's enough.


End file.
